Leaving the House
by Altariel
Summary: Faramir comes home from the war.
1. Leaving the House

**Leaving the House**

 _The Houses of Healing, 26_ _th_ _March 3019 T.A._

Faramir lay on the bed and watched the boys pack his possessions. Ten days here, and his sick room had acquired a remarkable amount of clutter – clothes, papers, maps, books. He had taken out a few of the more sensitive documents, and the book that he was reading, and retrieved also his shaving kit. These he would carry. Everything else could be sent on home.

It was very early in the morning. He had spent the night before with his Rangers, celebrating the unlikely victory and their even more unlikely survival. His head was in much better shape than he deserved, and he knew that he now ought to get down to work. People would be returning soon to the City. There was very little food, and not all their homes were in order. And then there was the small matter of the coronation…

There was a tap at the door and the Warden entered. He eyed the new Steward, stretched out on the bed, and frowned. "I can't persuade you to stay?"

Faramir shook his head.

"Ten days ago you were on the brink of death—"

"And now I am not."

The boys finished their task, and left, carrying the boxes between them. The Warden over to the bed, and gestured at Faramir's shoulder. He loosened the ties on his shirt, and allowed the Warden to examine him.

"See?" he said. "Much better."

"Hmm. My advice would be to stay at least another day or two—"

"I cannot." He fastened his shirt again, and reached for his tunic, slipping it on carefully so that he did not jar himself. The Warden offered him a small wooden box. "Salve for your shoulder," he said, "and a sleeping draught or two, should the need arise. Send to me directly if you want more."

Faramir nodded, and took the box. He stood up, picked up his belongings, and was ready to go. "One question, Eradan – where is my sword?"

The Warden shook his head. "It is a rule of the house that all blades should be for healing purposes. I doubt it ever came here."

Which meant thinking about the time before his arrival here, tracking his movements through those hours... Faramir sighed, and made for the door. The Warden looked at him thoughtfully. "It is usual to for me on the departure of a patient to commend them to somebody's care—"

"I shall take care of myself."

* * *

He walked slowly up to the seventh level, enjoying the still quiet morning. As he passed the Tree, the guards saluted him. Holding his possessions in one arm, he returned the gesture – and then remembered that custom dictated that the Lord of the City did not do that… _This will take some adjustment_ , he thought.

Delaying the inevitable for a little longer, he walked along the prow. At the very far end, he stopped at the battlements to look out East across the wreck of the Pelennor. There was the next task, and the next, and the next... He thought about the last time he had stood here, less than a month ago. He had been with Father, and they had heard the sound of a horn carried in on the wind from the North. And now Father was gone too. How was that possible? Denethor was the stone of the City; the very bones of Gondor. How could he be dead?

Standing high, looking out, Faramir suddenly felt terribly alone. He wished, suddenly, to be back in the House, waiting to join the Lady for breakfast. He longed to see her again. He would struggle to find time over the coming days. He would want to go to her, and some new task would intervene, some new duty, some new call upon him. Soon she would leave. She would head to Cormallen, to her brother, and then to Rohan, and he would remain here, alone.

"Come now," he murmured to himself. "All shall be well. And you have work to do."

* * *

He walked across the Court. He intended to go home first, to see how things stood there. Crossing the Court, he remembered walking the other way – from the Tower down to the stables to ride for the river. He thought of what Pippin had told him; that when he was brought back his father had sat beside him hoping to hear one last word. He fervently wished that this was possible.

 _I wish I could speak to you one more time. I wish that I could tell you that I love you. That it was my honour to serve you._

How would it be over the coming days and weeks? He sensed, sometimes, from people around him, the relief that Denethor was not here to cause obstruction. They did not say this to him, of course, but he knew their thinking. This was part of what made being with Éowyn so restful. She knew nothing about Father. She only knew that he mourned, and she understood. Would his father simply disappear? Would all that strength and courage and sacrifice be forgotten, overwritten by the last grim months and the final awful hours? He was not sure he could bear that.

He came to the door of his home. He must find a way to live here now somehow, he thought, live without them. They were gone, and could not return to him, except in memory. He knew – he had observed again and again – how his family differed from others. But they had been his, he had been theirs, and he had loved them above all.

The door opened ahead of him. He ducked his head below the lintel and went inside. Looking up, he saw the whole household gathered in the hall and on the stairs, waiting to welcome the master home from war. All of them, from some who had known him his entire life, down to the very youngest, a maid of fifteen. He looked at them in astonishment. "What, did you all stay behind? Through the siege? All of you?"

A quiet murmur passed around. Haleth, the housekeeper said, with gentle admonishment, "We stayed to look after him, my lord."

Tears sprang into his eyes. Before he knew what was happening, he was drawn inside. Soon enough he found himself in the study, at his father's desk, his papers before him and his breakfast beside him. The box of papers that he had sent ahead stood nearby. His sword was propped up against it. There was a fire crackling warmly in the hearth. He had come home.

* * *

 _Altariel, 1_ _st_ _October 2018_


	2. The Manner of Your Return

**The manner of your return**

 _Minas Tirith, 27_ _th_ _March 3019 T.A._

Very early in the day, in the huge echoing hall, Faramir stood before his father's empty seat and took his oath to hold rod and rule until the king returned.

Mid-morning, by the Steward's command, the council convened. The chamber fell silent when he entered. Húrin told him later that it was as if fifty years had been rolled back. He was the very image of his father.

He walked stonily past the assembled lords to his place at the head of the table. Each one of them had seen that last exchange, he knew; had witnessed all the love and loyalty twisted into grief and pain. How he longed to be walking one last time towards his father, to have the chance to offer him everything he had to give.

Instead, he took his chair. Once he was seated, the lords sat too. Húrin addressed them. "Let it be recorded that I call to order this first council of Faramir, son of Denethor, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the High King..."

He listened to the necessary words. And when the formalities were done, he looked around his council – and he smiled.

"Lords of Gondor," he said. "We are victorious."

* * *

 _Altariel, 3_ _rd_ _October 2018_


	3. Keeping the House

**Keeping the House**

 _Minas Tirith, start of April 3019 T.A._

Arranging a house to suit an aging lord and two weary sons has not been the easiest task, but Haleth has done her best. Everything kept as warm and quiet as possible. Food appearing at regular intervals. Hot baths.

Now she is released. Windows are open. Rooms aired. Vases appear, with flowers. Different curtains. She doubts the young lord has noticed, although he is smiling more and is whistling again.

And now… a lady. "Show me the library," she said, which bodes well at least. Haleth walks slowly past the door. From within she hears a man and woman, laughing.

* * *

 _Altariel, 4_ _th_ _October 2018_


	4. Genii Familiae

**Genii Familiae**

 _Minas Tirith, the evening of 26_ _th_ _March 3019 T.A._

His first day as Steward proved long and tiring. He returned home wearied beyond words. There had been no chance even to send a message to the Lady, and he felt her absence profoundly. The house was quiet; the servants had gone to bed. He slipped up the stairs to his rooms – only to find that the bed was unmade.

 _Of course, they thought I was going to die…_ Then another idea struck him, and he went softly round to the master bedroom. Yes, there was the room, cleared of his father; the bed, ready for him. He shivered; it was still early in the year. He would not rest here, not alone. He retreated to the library, lay on the long couch there, and read until he fell asleep.

He woke in the middle of the night. The candle had burned down, and the fire was slumbering in the hearth.

" _Is he awake yet?"_

" _Looks like it."_

" _Why he can't bestir himself and go upstairs to sleep I never understand."_

" _Father! He's come a long way!"_

" _And this is a library, not a Ranger camp."_

He remembered this conversation. He had been out along the northern border, where the Road turned eastwards through the battle plain. He and three others, hiding in the foothills for a fortnight, watching troop movements. It had rained the whole way home.

"I was tired," he said, sitting up.

" _You took your time."_

" _We expected you yesterday, brother_."

"I came as quick as I could… Neither of you were home when I arrived," he added, defensively.

" _And this is what happens when I leave you to look after yourself. You fall asleep in chairs."_

"It's perfectly comfortable—"

" _But it's not a bed."_

"No," he said, and smiled. "Is supper ready?"

" _Of course. You always wake in time for supper…"_

They had eaten together, he recalled. Stood together for the Silence, and then sat together – all three of them, together – talking for hours. Strategy, policy, and, yes, a great deal of gossip – and, underneath, all that was shared between them: the deep unspoken love for Gondor; the seriousness with which they took their charge. His family; his home; his brother and father.

"Don't go," he said, to the silent room. "The house – it's too empty."

He closed his eyes. When he woke again, it was early morning. The house was completely still. This morning he would swear his oath, begin his brief time as Ruling Steward. Later, he would meet with the council. He would take his father's seat, his duties, his burdens. He would fulfil the task for which he had been born – the spare, the one to replace the heir. His eyes began to swim. He stood up, to begin the day. He was hungry, and in need of company.

* * *

 _Altariel, 13_ _th_ _April 2019_


	5. Upstairs, Downstairs

**Upstairs, Downstairs**

"History is women following behind with the bucket." Alan Bennett

* * *

 _Minas Tirith, end of March 3019 T.A._

Eilyn had loved the old lord, fiercely. She didn't know that she was rare in feeling this way; she had not known anything else. She had come to the Steward's House the summer before the War, a few weeks after the breaking of the bridge, fresh from Lossarnach. Her mother's aunt Haleth was the housekeeper there, and said Eilyn would be safer in the City than the Vale, and, besides, she could use a sensible lass around the place.

By that late date, the old lord was not much about the house. His duties kept him in the Tower from before dawn until well into the night. Haleth said it had not always been that way; when he first brought his young wife home, for instance, he would return at all times of the day, flowers in hand. Then there was the baby, then the next one, then two small boys, and then... Well, his wife had died, of course, and the house became much less of a home. You try your best, Haleth would say, but if the master's heart isn't it, there's not much you can do. Then she would sigh. _Those poor boys_.

When the old lord was home, however, you knew he was there. His heavy, measured tread; his careful, modest habits. His orderliness and quiet; his distant courtesy. His presence hung over the house. Others, Eilyn knew, found him oppressive, but she was a kindly girl, uncomplicated, and she felt sorry for this lonely old widower, with burdens she could not begin to understand. Eilyn did not know the sons. The older one had gone away on his long journey before she came to the house. She knew his name, of course; she knew how brave he was and how he laughed when faced with danger. But everyone knew that. He was famous. Eilyn knew more – things she would never tell. She knew the mess his rooms had been in, after he'd left, and the faint scent of leather and soap that hung around them even now. She knew that his father would go there, sometimes, to stand in the middle of the room, and close his eyes, and simply breathe… She knew that the old man carried an image of him everywhere, which he placed on his bedside table at night.

Eilyn hadn't seen much of the other son. He'd been away most of the end of that year too, on some errand or other that had taken him out to Belfalas. He came back for _mettar_ _ë_ , but not for long, and, besides, all he did was eat and sleep, and leave his clothes lying around. Good clothes too, best clothes, screwed up in a heap in a corner, which meant work for someone, which meant her. She tried her best with his rooms, but they were beyond hope. She didn't dare touch the desk, sensing that there was some order there that should not be disturbed. All she did, she thought, was clamber over stacks of books and move the dust around between them.

During the siege, after she'd refused to go with the wains on the promise that she would run for the hills the second Haleth gave the order, Eilyn went up to the young lord's rooms. She sat on the bed, and looked around, and thought about the old lord sitting right now by his dying son, and she cried for him – the old lord, who had given everything, and still it had not been enough. After the battle, when everyone took some time to slip away, to be alone to weep for their fallen, she had come back here and cried again for the old man, amongst the books and the dust and the empty bed.

Between the battle and the Downfall, Haleth kept them busy cleaning the house from top to bottom. One or two complained that there wasn't much point, given the end of the world and all, but Eilyn found the task kept her mind off things. It turned out to have been the right thing to do. The day of the Downfall found her back once again in the young lord's rooms, stripping the bed. Haleth herself took on the master bedroom – clearing, tidying, dusting, throwing open windows, making everything ready. The new master – this unknown, untidy man – was coming home.

Eilyn caught a glimpse of him on his arrival, back from the Houses of Healing. Tall, very pale, with a faint line of bruises on his face, he was clutching a book and some papers to his chest as if they were helping him keep his balance. He looked slightly dazed. Haleth whisked him away before Eilyn could get a better look, and he went back out again later, to the Tower, where he stayed for the rest of the day. That evening, by the fireside in the kitchen, he was the only topic of conversation: How did he look? Was he really fit enough to be out of bed? What did he know about his father? Haleth – no-nonsense, sensible Haleth – shed a few tears at that point. _That poor boy_ , she said. _Those poor boys_.

The morning after that, Eilyn got up earlier than everyone else, as usual, and went down to the kitchen. As she came along the passage, she heard a noise ahead – someone was already there. Eilyn was the early riser in the house – a childhood in the country and half-a-dozen younger brothers and sisters meant she would always be awake before the sun. Who could it be? She picked up a pan as a precaution and opened the door. The young lord was standing by the table, knife in hand, cutting a piece a bread. The loaf was directly on the table, and he was hacking away. There were crumbs everywhere.

"What do you think you're doing?" cried Eilyn. "Look at the state of that table!"

He blinked at her. He said, "Are you going to use that on me?"

"What?"

"The pan," he said, pointing with his knife. "It looks like it might hurt."

She put down the pan. She went over to the table, and began to sweep the crumbs into her hand. "What a mess," she muttered, crossly.

"I woke early," he said. He sounded faintly embarrassed. "I wanted some breakfast—"

"I'll get you breakfast," she said. She picked up the loaf and tutted. "Who goes hacking at a loaf of bread like that?"

"It was all I could find—"

"There's not much at the moment."

"Yes, well, I'm working on that—"

"Hmm," she said. She got a plate, and put it on the table. He sat down. "That's better," she said. "Now, there's some honey somewhere…"

She busied herself around the kitchen, the enormity of how this conversation was unfolding having by now more than dawned on her. She found the honey, and she briskly boiled water and made tea. She cut another two slices of bread – one to tidy up the loaf (she handed that to him, it was his mess) and she put the other on a plate for herself. She poured them both tea (earning mumbled thanks), and sat down opposite him.

They ate bread and honey and eyed each other. Now she could take a proper look at him, she could see the resemblance to the old lord: the long nose and the sharp grey eyes. One big difference: she'd never seen his father in the kitchen.

"Do you usually wander in here and help yourself?" she said.

"Haleth never minded," he said, defensively.

"Haleth would have my hide if she saw me doing that to a loaf."

"It seems the regime has changed in my absence," he said. "I'll know better from now on."

"It's your house."

He smiled, faintly. "I suppose it is now. But evidently not my kitchen."

She blushed. "Just... use a board next time. Somebody has to tidy up afterwards, you know!"

"You're quite right," he said, humbly. He finished his tea and stood up. "Is there anything else… I'm sorry, I don't think we've been introduced."

"Eilyn," she said.

"Eilyn," he said, and nodded. "I'm Faramir. I should warn you that I do get up early, and I also eat a lot. But I'll try to be mindful in future of making a mess."

"I'd appreciate that," she said.

* * *

He was indeed there the next morning, but this time he'd used the bread board, and he stayed afterwards and dried the dishes and put them away exactly where and how she told him. Then he disappeared off to the Tower and whatever he did there, and she got on with her day.

That afternoon, on her rounds, Eilyn came to the library. Eilyn liked the library. The books were solid and reassuring. Shelved and orderly too: another difference between father and son. She had decided, during the siege, that if for some reason she couldn't get away, she would come to the library and wait for the end. She hadn't needed to, but she was still happy in here, and always took a little longer over her tasks. Most days, when she was done, she would sit down in the big arm chair by the fire and read. Just a page or so; not too much. She had taken to leaving the book she was reading on the table by the chair.

So she knew the library well, and she knew when something was up. The half-read book on the floor by the long couch alone wasn't a clue; he left a trail of books after him like breadcrumbs. No, the clue was in the thick blanket tossed over the back of the couch and all the cushions piled up at one end. An empty wine bottle stood on the floor. Following her hunch, Eilyn went straight upstairs to the master bedroom. The bed was untouched; the room plainly still unoccupied. The following morning, as he made tea for them, she said, "Did you sleep in the library last night?"

He looked at her guiltily. "What makes you say that?"

"I do the beds round here. I know the one in the master bedroom hasn't been slept in…" She stopped herself before saying 'since'.

He said, "That isn't my room. My room is at the back."

"I know which your room is. Why not sleep in there?"

A slight pink rose up on his cheeks. "Well, the bed isn't made—"

"And I suppose you don't know how to make a bed?"

"I _do_ know how to make a bed," he said, tartly. "I _don't_ know where Haleth has hidden the sheets, and I _also_ know that if Haleth discovered me sleeping on an unmade bed she would – how did you put it the other day? – 'have my hide'."

"Quite right too," said Eilyn. "So the library was the best option?"

"It was the simplest option."

Eilyn took a swig of tea. "She'll have your hide if she finds you camping in there."

"Are you going to tell her?"

Eilyn drained her cup, stood up, and started collecting the dishes. "Not if you wash up."

* * *

She made the bed for him. She brought his book up from the library and left it on the bedside table and, as an afterthought, put a vase of freshly cut spring flowers there too. The next morning, he was slightly later downstairs than she was, as if he'd had a particularly good night's sleep. He went out whistling.

That afternoon, when she had finished up in the library, and went to her seat to read, she couldn't find her book. She looked everywhere; no sign. _Well_ , she thought, _so much for my five minutes to myself._ She got up and went about her business.

The following morning, as they were washing up, he said to her, "Cementur's _Odes_ , is it?"

"What?"

"Sorry to have borrowed it – I needed them. When you're done, you should try his _Lament for Finduilas_. I've left it with the _Odes_ on the table by your chair."

She flushed scarlet. The books, of course; the books. Books everywhere – in his room, on the shelves, on the stairs, on the floor, in his hand, everywhere he went – books. She said, "How did you know it was me reading it?"

"Not much happens in that library that I don't know about," he said. "Not much happens in Gondor that I don't know about." He smiled at her. "There are ships arriving later this morning. Tell Haleth to send someone down to the market. Tomorrow I'll make you bacon and eggs."

* * *

Written for the 'Legends' challenge at Teitho, where it placed second.

 _Altariel, 4_ _th_ _April 2019_


End file.
